The Butterfly Effect
by SplatDragon
Summary: Whumptober, Bad Things Happen Bingo: Arthur should have expected his and Dutch's 'vacation' to go wrong, really. When, last, had something gone right for them? Especially up in the Grizzlies.
1. I'm Falling

**Whumptober 2019, #20: "Trembling"**  
**Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Hypothermia"**

It all happened in a second.

It was supposed to be a chance for them to relax, Hosea had said. They hated the Grizzlies, but it had some damned good hunting, and they'd both had so much on their shoulders lately. So why not go up for the weekend, load their horses and have some fun?

And, so far, they had. Arthur's satchel was heavy with rabbit pelts, and the mule behind them's wagon had a pair of does loaded on it. It was a stubborn thing, but sturdy and hadn't cost much to rent, so they supposed it was worth it.

A lone wolf had been standing on the ice of Lake Isabella, attention held by something away from them. Arthur had laughed at Dutch, saying he couldn't make the shot, and Dutch had pulled out his rifle, lining up the shot and dropping the wolf. Since Arthur had lost the bet, he'd been sent to collect the carcass, dismounting and taken his shotgun with him in case the wolf's pack was nearby.

He'd made it to the carcass, loaded it on his shoulders to the sound of Dutch's laughter, wrinkling his nose when its lolling tongue slithered against his face. Dutch laughed even harder at his sound of disgust, and any other time he would have been angry, but it sounded good to hear Dutch laugh again, to hear him sound so carefree and unburdened.

And then, of course, it all went wrong.

There was a low groaning beneath his foot, and he froze, eyes going wide. Dutch's laugh cut off abruptly, and he jolted upright, The Count prancing backwards. "Don't move, Arthur."

Arthur gulped, grabbed the wolf from his shoulders and threw it towards Dutch, hoping to remove some of the weight. The ice crackled beneath the wolf's carcass, before shattering completely, and Dutch inhaled sharply beneath his teeth reaching for his lasso. The cracks were beginning to spread, and Arthur backed up slowly, dragging his feet, eyes wide and stance awkward, trying to spread out his weight. "Dutch…"

"It's okay, Arthur, I've got you," he grimaced; Arthur was out of reach of his lasso. He nudged The Count forward, but the Arabian flattened his ears and stamped his hooves, refusing to move. "Dammit, Count!" he hissed, digging his spurs into his sides.

The ice groaned a final time, and the cracks shot out, giving way beneath him, dropping him into the water.

"_Arthur!"_

The water _burned_, tore at his skin like millions of tiny needles, a solid form against him, and he couldn't help but to gasp, inhaling a mouthful of water. The frigid water was like a knife to his lungs, spreading through him and leaving him to thrash against the pain. He surged up, tried to lunge through that hole he'd fallen through, only to slam into thick ice hard enough that he saw stars, crying out into the water with what air he had left.

His body was going heavy, the cold tearing away his strength, but he brought his hands up, slamming them into the ice as hard as he could. It was pitch black, and he looked around, but he couldn't make out any light, any sign of the hole he'd fallen through; how strong was the current? He couldn't feel one, but he had to close his eyes again, eyes burning in pain.

There was a harsh, sudden thudding above him, and he could just make out a voice, "_ur! -thur!"_ but his ears were beginning to ring, his chest burning, struggling not to breathe in more water. Surely his lungs were going to crumple, to explode, his rib-cage would shatter into a million tiny pieces?

He couldn't do it anymore, and he gasped, flooding his lungs with water.

Oh, _god_, it hurt. His hands flew to his chest, abandoning the ice that was thudding, louder and louder, the voice crying out so loud that he could make out his name ("_Arthur! ARTHUR! DON'T STOP FIGHTING ARTHUR! ARTHUR, SON, ARTHUR!")_ and he clawed at it, feeling as though someone were taking a knife to his lungs, as though someone had shoved a cactus down his throat and into his chest, _oh god it hurts make it stop_ but there were black dots in the corner of his vision and already he was beginning to stop panicking, to feel calm, even as his body convulsed out of his control.

There was a great crash above him, and then a splash, and an iron grip around his chest, pulling him upwards

And Arthur knew no more.


	2. I'm So Cold and I Can't Get Warm

**Whumptober 2019, #20: "Trembling"**  
**Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Hypothermia"**

Something was pushing on his chest, and god but it _hurt_.

Someone was crying, who was that? Their voice was torn up as they gasped, "_Arthur, please. Son, wake up, please."_

A mouth pressed against his, and his chest expanded and _shit that hurts stop!_ there was already something in his chest, and the person pressed again, and something wet bubbled passed his lips and he tried to open them to get it out more but they wouldn't obey him.

"_Arthur, god, please, please wake up son, I'm so sorry."_

Arthur, oh right, that was him, wasn't it?

The person pressed on his chest again, before breathing into his mouth, and _god that hurts stop_ and they pressed down again, harder, and a sharp, burning pain shot across his rib-cage, and he tried to beg, _stop, please, stop!_ but his voice wouldn't obey, he felt paralyzed, completely trapped to the will of whoever was hurting him so, and they were pleading again,

"_Oh god son, I'm so sorry, please, please just wake up! Arthur, please,"_ they dropped their head to his chest for a long moment, before pressing their hands to his chest again, pressing and _shit that hurts oh god!_ before pressing their lips to his mouth again and breathing into him.

They pulled back, gasping, choking out "_Oh, Arthur, please,"_, pressing their hands on his chest again and

it _hurt_, but something in his chest caught and water bubbled violently out of his mouth, and he started to cough. He was only barely aware of a sobbed "Oh, thank god," as a pair of firm hands helped him turn onto his side, rubbing circles on his back, "I've got you son, I got you," as he retched, beginning to vomit, waiting until he began to gasp for breath before laying him on his side, humming tunelessly and continuing to rub his back.

"Oh, thank god Arthur, thank god."

Arthur wheezed, curling in on himself as he began to shiver, oh god he was _so cold_, and his chest was killing him, "Arthur, speak to me, can you hear me?" Dutch, right that was Dutch, sounded so rattled,

"Th'nk," he slurred, blinking blearily, reaching up to fumble at his chest, hand being captured by Dutch's much warmer one. So warm that it burned, and he flinched away. "Th'nk I br'ke s'meth'n."

Dutch's face was starting to swim into view, whirl into focus, and he looked incredibly apologetic, "Sorry, son, that was me." His hand came around, wrapping around Arthur's shoulders, carefully scooping him up. He grunted under his dead weight, staggering—_Christ_, when had his boy become so heavy?—apologizing again when Arthur moaned in pain, the halves of his broken rib grinding against each other.

"Sorry, sorry," he murmured, carefully sliding Arthur up onto his gelding, making sure he was perched in front of the saddle before hurrying over to The Count, untacking him and throwing his saddle on top of the wagon, before taking his saddle blanket and wrapping it around Arthur. He curled in on himself, shivering even more. Dutch climbed into the saddle behind him, leaning him against his chest, "Stay awake Arthur, please," when he saw his eyelids fluttering, taking the reins in his hands.

He was certain there was a cabin not far from here, remembered seeing it when they were riding out of Colter. So he turned the Shire, whistling sharply to get The Count and the mule to follow him spurring him into motion as fast as he dared.

"D'tch?" Arthur slurred, head lolling back on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Arthur, you'll be okay. Just stay awake for me a little bit longer, please?" He murmured, shifting the reins to one hand so he could run his hand over Arthur's bare wrist, shivering at the frigidness of his snow-white skin.

God, where was that cabin?

"Almost there, son." he murmured, stroking his thumb on his wrist, which was even colder if that were possible. His shivering had begun to pick up, all-but vibrating against his front, and Dutch pulled him tighter against his chest, frowning when he felt how shallowly his chest was moving. "Just keep holding on, Arthur. Stay awake."

When the cabin came into view—it wasn't the cabin Dutch had thought of, they'd passed it and now they were in Colter, Dutch could have cried. He jumped out of the saddle, Arthur blinking blearily as he fell more than climbed down, staggering, Dutch catching him and slinging his arm over his shoulder. "D'tch, where…?"

"Colter, son," he said, carrying more than leading the blanketed man into the cabin, recognizing it as one of the few that was still relatively whole. It had a bed, he knew, and an unblocked fireplace. It was vaguely warm inside, if only just slightly warmer than outside, but even still Arthur sighed, although he continued to shiver against him.

He lowered Arthur to the ground, making sure he could sit up without support before stepping outside, grabbing the firewood that was protected by the stoop. Thank god it wasn't wet, protected from the falling snow, so he didn't have to go find some more, just set it down in the fireplace, lighting a match on the matchbox before tossing it on top, making sure it had caught fire before kneeling next to Arthur.

"Arthur, son," he said, frowning when his boy blinked at him blearily, uncomprehending, "I need you to get out of these wet clothes," and he did, Arthur was dripping wet, the ground beneath him soaking wet and quickly beginning to form a puddle.

Sluggishly, Arthur nodded, reaching up to fumble with the buttons of his jacket. Dutch bit his lip, carefully nudging his hand away, undoing his buttons, remembering when Arthur was a lot younger, when he'd get so drunk he'd pass out by the campfire and he or Hosea would have to haul him to bed, strip him down to his union suit.

Dutch threw his jacket near the fireplace to dry it, having to wrestle Arthur's arms out of the sleeves for him, the man struggling to move them as he needed. He dreaded having to haul him out of his pants and his union suit, but it was a necessary evil, if Arthur developed frostbite he'd never forgive himself, and he was already showing signs of hypothermia. His shirt was harder, only having a few buttons on the top, and he had to manhandle Arthur more than he wanted to, apologizing again as his boy moaned in pain, head lolling back, shirt joining his jacket on the ground.

He stooped down, yanking his boots off and throwing them aside. Now for his pants…

"Arthur, son, I need you to help me." He threw Arthur's arm over his shoulder, the man digging his heels into the ground, scrambling to his feet, tottering and threatening to keel over. Dutch leaned down, struggling not to let Arthur fall, undoing the clasp on his pants and working them down, hooking his shoe in the crotch when he couldn't reach them anymore and shoving them to the ground, helping Arthur step out.

He carefully guided Arthur back to the bed, staggering like a drunken man, propping him up half against the wall. "I'm going to take off your union suit, now, alright?" Arthur's head lolled, but he nodded, Dutch could barely see it but it was enough, and he reached to unbutton the top as carefully as he could, his own hands trembling—he was cold, too, his clothes wet from diving in, but moving around so much had helped him warm up.

He pulled the union suit from Arthur's shoulders, sliding it down his arms, before struggling to lift him up, Arthur blinking at him blankly when he asked him to arch off the bed, finally managing to get them over his hips, then off his legs, throwing it to the side, realizing idly that he could have just cut it off and apologized later. The saddle blanket was still on the ground, so he grabbed it, and began to dry Arthur; it was better to be itchy with horse hair than limbless with frostbite.

Dutch turned to go outside, setting the blanket on Arthur's lap to give him some semblance of dignity, stopping when he slurred "D'tch?"

He looked back over his shoulder, "It's alright Arthur, I'm just going to get our things and put the horses up." By put the horses up he meant take the wagon off the mule and put the three in the stables, he'd feed and untack them once they were warmed up and he was sure Arthur wasn't dying of hypothermia.

He hurried, setting the saddlebags and bedrolls on the stoop, jogged with the horses reins in his hand and the mule following at his heels, leading them into the stables before removing the wagon. The Count complained when he began to walk out, but for once he didn't go back to comfort him, just secured the stable and ran back to the cabin, struggling under the weight of their things.

Dutch stripped himself quickly, yanking his clothes off and flinging them into a disorganized heap next to the fire. He used Arthur's horse's blanket to dry himself, not wanting to take Arthur's blanket, pausing when Arthur spoke up, "D'tch? Wh're're we?"

He stilled, frowning and stepping over, buck naked, pressing his hand against his face and shivering—his skin was still cold as ice, "We're in Colter son, remember?"

Turning, he grabbed their bedrolls, opening them and throwing them on top of Arthur to try and warm him up. Arthur blinked at him sluggishly, "Oh."

Dutch hurried to dress, pulling on his union suit and, after a moment, pants and shirt. It would be uncomfortable, but he needed to warm up, and his union suit wouldn't help too much. But Arthur was his biggest concern, so he set the rest of his clothes on the foot of the bed.

He pressed his hand against Arthur's face when he approached, finding him marginally warmer, "How do you feel, son?" beginning to shift the bedrolls up to bare his feet and nothing else,

Arthur groaned, trying to bring his feet up, but Dutch rested his hands on his ankles, frowning at the blue-ish tinge of his toes, rubbing them to try and encourage blood flow. "O-ow,"

"Sorry Arthur,"

"T'red." he murmured, and Dutch shook his head,

"Just a little bit longer, okay son? You can rest in a little while."

He grabbed Arthur's union suit, carefully pulling it over one foot, and then another, pulling the bedrolls up to bare his lower legs, and then his upper, averting his eyes as he pulled the suit up over his waist, having to prop him up a bit, and then up over his torso. "Arms, Arthur," his arms twitched up, and Dutch hauled them up the rest of the way, tugging the union suit up his arms. Turning, he grabbed the gloves, pulling three of the pairs onto his hands, before tugging on as many pairs of pants as he physically could, and then shirts.

Arthur fumbled with the top shirt, tugging at it, and Dutch was relieved to see that he was somewhat more coordinated than before. Any other time he would have laughed at how awkward he was, unable to move his fingers with how many pairs of gloves he was wearing, but he was just glad to see him moving his hands. Pressing his hand against his cheek, he could have cried when he felt a little bit of warmth—still somewhat chilled, but much more warm than before.

Dutch threw some more firewood on the fire before pulling on the last pair of gloves, nudging Arthur to the side and helping him lay down before laying down, back to the door. He guided Arthur to curl up against his chest, trying to share his body heat, remembering when he, Hosea, and Arthur would share a bed when Arthur was very young, pulling the blanket, horse blanket, and bedrolls on top of them before beginning to rub his boy's back as he fell asleep.


End file.
